Feelings In Black And White
by silver-sunn101
Summary: RLHP. "Carefully, almost shyly, I moved my hand to gently touch his soft hair as I did the night before."


As Dumbledore continued to talk on, I lost patience and tuned out his ramblings as other Order members had done before me. All night we had talked, debated, and argued about what should be done this year to further prepare ourselves for the war that continued to grow on the horizon. We had reached the small hours of the night, which had their effect on the people, my colleagues, with whom I sat. Minerva was limp in her chair; her head back in exhausted sleep. She held her glasses limply in her hand. As she adjusted in her chair, her tight bun slowly loosened. I half hoped that her hair would fall out of its prison since I had never seen it loose around her shoulders.

The other person who was close to sleep was Harry. Harry who had talked to the guilt we all held deep inside when it came to him until we allowed him to attend our meetings during this summer. It was then, only then when he had argued so carefully and maturely, that I appreciated the man he was becoming. His height hadn't changed much, I knew that he would always be of short stature, but his shoulders had broadened and his voice deepened. His hair was still an untamable mess and his eyes their brilliant green color. The green in his eyes was deep and bright—a brightness I had only seen in my own eyes. But my blood was cursed and that curse was the only reason for my bright eyes. I had no reasoning for Harry's unnaturally vivid eyes other than the abundance of strength and life that seemed to radiate from him. I could not let this appreciation of the boy—no, young man, go any further for surely it could lead me nowhere.

Since the death of Sirius, my beloved Sirius, I had felt no real attraction to anyone. But with Harry I sense the roots of attraction, and possibly more, gently growing in me. I couldn't have that. Everyone I had ever loved—save my fatherly love for Harry in years past—was dead now. And though my rational thoughts told me otherwise, I blamed myself for their deaths. I knew for a fact that Harry blamed himself of the same. The two of us together—though surely it would never happen—could only cause disaster.

A movement woke me from my thoughts. I froze. It seemed that Harry wasn't simply close to sleep—he had fallen into it. Now that wasn't what had stilled me so. No, Harry quite deserved the rest; it was _where_ he laid his head in his attempt to achieve that rest, that stopped me. Harry's head was resting on my shoulder, in the simplest of terms. His deliciously warm head, the head which held one of the most brilliant minds I had the fortune to know, was pressed against my tattered robes, the warmth from his seeping through to my scarred shoulder. This wasn't good. No, this wasn't good at all.

My apprehension to allow my thoughts to wander as they pleased has sprouted from many places; my past experiences, the difference in our ages, the impending war and our respective roles in that war, my relation to him through his father, and my place as his mentor. Each of those in itself was a legitimate reason for me to stop my foolish thoughts before they did Harry or myself any harm, emotional or the like.

The main reason I had was simple: my aforementioned curse.

It could—I could—hurt Harry. I could have hurt him many times before, yes that's true, but now I had the proper insight to clear my mind and see the full implications of a close relationship with the young man. I could give him the curse. I wouldn't become dependent of him—or rather attached to him, I might say—at least not at first. Contrary to popular belief, werewolves do not mate. Nor do they bind their affections to one person. Rather, they slowly get used to having the other person around, exactly like a regular human, and once their human side has fall in love, the darker werewolf side begins the same process at a much slower rate. Needless to say, not many have experienced the complete and full love of the total werewolf. In the instance in which that _does_ happen, the werewolf side will long for the person's partner if the partner is gone for too long. The person afflicted with the curse will often experience severe mood swings which, ironically, sometimes are the cause of a break up and heartbreak. And in the end, the werewolf is alone once more.

I couldn't allow myself to do that to Harry. As harmless as it may seem to others, dealing with that would most likely crush him. He's the kind of person to hold out on relationships, scared of rejection and failure, scared of heartbreak. But in the relationships that he _does_ attempt, he goes with his all, not holding back anything. Not that Harry would go along with it in the first place, but if he did–No. I stopped the onslaught of thoughts there. I was only torturing and teasing myself and that wasn't right.

I tried to concentrate on Dumbledore's words but they made no sense to me, as if they were spoken in a language that I do not know. Without knowledge of what I did, I raised my hand and softly touched Harry's stubborn hair. The touch was soft enough to be intimate, though if it was parental or something else I didn't know and didn't care to find out. I moved my hand back to where it belonged.

Dumbledore had stopped speaking now. He had leaned back in his chair to observe us like some grand king. He must have finally noticed that Harry and Minerva were lost to the night. Or maybe he had seen Tonks slumped forward onto the table, asleep with her head resting on her crossed arms. Perhaps it was Molly, who was asleep in much the same fashion as Minerva, or Severus, whose elbow on the table supported his sleep-heavy head. The only ones of our meeting who were still awake were Dumbledore, in his grand chair; Arthur, who himself was flirting with the sandman; Kingsley, whose expression was of plain boredom; Bill, who was stifling yawns; and myself.

"I believe that we should call it a night," Dumbledore said in a hushed voice. He seemed to be the only one entirely awake.

"What time shall we meet tomorrow?" I asked.

"One o'clock should be sufficient," Dumbledore said as he rose. Bill collected the papers while we woke the others.

It seemed a sin to wake Harry from his only moments of peace, but I very well couldn't stay there with this head on my shoulder, no matter how comfortable and tempting that prospect was. I gently shook Harry's shoulder until half-coherent mumblings tumbled from his mouth.

"Come, Harry, the meeting is over," I said.

Harry groggily stood, drunken with sleep, and grumbled, "You woke me up just to send me to bed?"

"I couldn't carry you up," I responded. Harry smiled sleepily but said nothing further.

Our council was slowly heading out the door and, nodding to Dumbledore, I led Harry in their direction with a firm hand on his shoulder. The upstairs was quiet, being absent of all other students but Harry, and all other occupants slowly leading themselves toward their rooms. When we reached the door to my room, Harry stopped abruptly, still looking terribly sleepy but wearing a look of determination on his features.

"Would you mind if we talked, Remus?" he asked quietly. "I know that it's late... We-we can talk tomorrow, if you don't want to tonight."

So shy, my Harry. So unsure of himself, unsure of how people will treat him. In battle he was sure, yes, that much is true, but outside of those fierce fights, in the social world, Harry was timid and cautious. He almost reminded me of myself at his age: quiet, withdrawn, holding secrets and memories of his past that he was bursting to share if only he could find someone like himself, someone who knew of the harsh lessons of pain, loss, regret and blame. Not unlike myselfthen, actually.

"Of course we can talk Harry," I said, ignoring the thoughts that taunted me, mercilessly reminding me that this was _Harry_ who wanted to come into _my_ room and I, being the adult, should tell him to wait for a more appropriate time. Though there should be no inappropriate time for me to spend time with Harry, as Iwas his trustee and nothing inappropriate should come from that. "I've lived on less sleep, I assure you," I added with a soft smile, hoping to help Harry feel less out of place.

I led him into my room, one of the smaller ones in Grimmauld Place. The furniture was scarce, as I was normally out on missions for the Order or sitting downstairs in the library. The only furniture to speak of was a small bed, a mahogany wardrobe that Sirius had insisted that I use, and a desk-and-chair set that matches the wardrobe. The missing pieces to the beautiful mahogany set, the large king-sized bed and wide dresser, were upstairs, coated in dust, sitting in wait for the man who rightfully owns them, the man who won't return to use them, not even for one more day. The walls were painted a light creme yellow, a vain attempt on my part at making the place more cheery, highlighted with forest green trim. All fabrics–the seat of the desk chair, the soft, bulky sheets of the bed, the draperies, the gentle cascade of silk that makes the canopy above my small bed–were all this same forest green, highlighted in places with that creme yellow. I had no carpet, only the thickly lacquered hardwood floors and a thin rug by the door.

Harry stood by the doorway, slightly unsure of where he should sit. My room was hardly designed for entertaining, which became uncomfortably obvious. The two of us sitting on my small bed hardly seemed right, but was really the only option, so I gestured for Harry to choose a spot on the bed while I closed the thick curtains on the clear, cool summer night.

"What is it you wanted to talk about Harry?" I asked. I seated myself next to Harry, who had settled himself with a shoulder against the headboard. A short stub of a candle was lit, feebly lighting the small room. Harry looked so much older, so hallowed out and worn, a look of exhaustion and emotion that I had hoped never to see on a seventeen-year-old. I shuddered to think of what that weak little candle did to my looks, which were never really one of my main concerns anyway.

"Do you know why it is me who has to fight Voldemort?" he asked, not looking at me, but at that small flame that will soon die out and plunge us into darkness.

"You're referring to the prophecy, aren't you?" Harry nodded, seeming distracted by that dancing flame, seeming drowsy and enticed by it. "Of course, I've known about it since your parents died and Dumbledore was sure that I wasn't the spy. Why do you bring it up?"

Harry was still pensively silent, all his attention seeming to be focused on the candle. I wanted for him to look at me, to let me see what emotions he held in his priceless green eyes. How worn Harry looked–how worn we all must look now. The Order was quite sure that Voldemort would try again to kill Harry, the major battle to end all battles, the Final Fight to the Death. We worked harder than ever, setting up precautions in this final stretch of time until that last battle. Harry seemed to realize the threat now, the role that he had to play in our fight against the Dark wizards. From the best of my knowledge, my dear Harry hadn't been sleeping well since his first meeting in the Order, two weeks ago. I feared for his health. The young man was already far too skinny as it was, and any further diminishing could make him fall ill.

After a few moments of this silence, Harry looked over at me, a delicate smile gracing his lips. He sighed a bit, and then shook his head as if dismissing a foolish thought.

"I... I was just tired of being alone in all of this," he said with his eyebrows furrowed as if surprised at the revelation he had just made. He looked rather pitiful, what with his large tired eyes, untidy hair and the helpless expression on his face.

"You aren't alone Harry, not hardly. Quite the contrary in fact. So many people are behind you in this, so many people are here to help you." I moved up the bed a little, closer to Harry and the head of the bed, close enough to place my hand on his shoulder. "Come Harry, lie down and get some sleep." I said gently.

Harry agreed without argument. He curled into a loose ball amongst my blankets and pillows. I removed his glasses and shoes, his bleary eyes watching me all the while. I pulled the think blankets over his small frame and gently brushed the hair from his forehead. His youth was enticing. His shoulders had only slightly broadened, his jaw seemed so undefined, but in his child-like eyes there shone a sense of maturity and manhood that seemed to contradict the innocent appearance of the rest of his body. Harry seemed to be full of these contradictions; his entire being simply one large paradox sent here to confuse and bewilder all those he met.

"You're never completely alone Harry," I said softer. He blinked sleepily up at me and slowly nodded.

"Thank you," he said thickly, but before I could ask him what for, he had fallen asleep again.

After some time spent watching this gentle sleep, I realized that I had no bed to sleep in myself. The easiest solution would be to lay down next to this young man and fall asleep. It hardly seemed appropriate, though. I was a fully grown man, no teenage girl and in no position to curl up on the bed with Harry like one. Despite my lingering doubts, I toed off my shoes and climbed into the tiny bed alongside Harry, fully clothed and just as exhausted as he was. Harry and I were comfortably pressed together. I closed my eyes with a sigh. I let the rest of the candle burn itself out, and quickly fell asleep.

The house was buzzing with early morning activity all around me. Loud cracks, blasts and booms in the room adjacent to mine signaled the return of Fred and George from their latest Order mission. Molly was walking around the house opening the curtains in each room to let the morning sunshine in as was her new tradition. Upstairs Tonks was padding softly around in her room with the occasional _thunk_ as her unfortunate clumsiness returned.

The curtains in my room had already been drawn back by Molly. The fresh pastel light of midmorning flooded my room pleasantly, giving my scarce furniture a sense of bright glory that it didn't quite deserve. Against my chest lay Harry, still deep in a heavy slumber, his cheek pressed against my shirt and his arm draped across my stomach. During the night we had kicked the blankets off, but curled up as we were we still remained more than warm enough. It was an experience that I hadn't had the fortune to enjoy in quite some time, this warm safe feeling upon awakening. The press of another comforting body, lying against me in complete surrender, giving me a false sense of security and the feeling that nothing could ever go wrong again. In moments like these, the happiness is pure and unhindered with fears and dark thoughts. The happiness from moments like these could fuel the world for centuries, it could cure horrible diseases like cancer and AIDS, it could prevent wars.

If everyone felt like this all the time, the world would be an infinitely better place. But the moment you pull away from the person lying with you, the moment you're on your own again with your feet planted firmly on the cold ground, that sense of safety disappears. That sense that you will never have to worry again, that as long as the person in your arms never lets you go you can live through anything, falls away, leaving you cold and disappointed. And though I was old enough to know that I would need to get up to face the cruel reality of life with a calm attitude and an unbreakable spirit, I never wanted to let go of Harry and surrender that moment. My dear, sweet Harry who, despite the unfaltering loyalty of so many people, still thought he was alone in his inevitable future. I wanted to be there with him every step of the way, proving to him that he always had _somebody_ to lean on and confide in.

I lay there for the better part of an hour, reveling in the complete sense of happiness that I felt with Harry lying there with me. Slowly he stirred. At first it was just the twitching of his fingers, and then it was his hands sliding across my shirt with sleep-induced clumsiness. He yawned and moved himself closer to me, his mop of hair resting just under my chin. He sighed softly and ran his hand slowly over my shirt, repeating the motion with almost loving tenderness. I lay still through all of this, feigning sleep as Harry slowly woke. Carefully, almost shyly, I moved my hand to gently touch his soft hair as I did the night before. Against my chest I could feel the pull of his cheeks as his lips turned up in a smile.

Harry moved away. He lay on his side, resting his head on his hand and looked down at me, his elbow pushing a dent into the mattress next to my head. "Morning Remus," he whispered. I returned the sentiment in the same soft tone. His cheek was red and imprinted with the image of a button from my robes. I reached up and ran my fingers over it, all of this seeming so utterly innocent and so completely wrong at the same time. He smiled sheepishly at me, seeming oblivious to the advances from the dirty old man next to him. "I guess that's what I get for sleeping in someone else's bed," he said playfully, a coy smirk identical to James' planted firmly upon his lips. Though James could never look this innocent while doing it. Nor could he–no, not thinking of the past. Present, Harry, witty remark. Right.

"And do you sleep in other people's beds often Harry?" I asked with my own innocence, this brand a lie, a mask of nonchalance behind which my fears and secret feelings cower.

Harry laughed, "No, I can safely say that you're the first."

I almost sighed with relief, and then questioned myself. Should it have matter to me who Harry had been with? To the extent of parental concern, perhaps, but I would be unfairly lying to myself if I convinced myself that parental feelings were all I had for my Harry. It was a slight weight off of my shoulders to hear him say that. It quelled the jealous beasts that lurk in the recesses of my mind, only to show themselves in a flurry of unjustified anger and awkward outbursts when most inconvenient to me. And Harry said I was his first. Sweet Merlin, could you find anyone else so innocently X-rated, so angelic but yet so undeniably delicious at the same time?

I cupped his cheek in my hand. I hadn't _planned_ on doing it–my hand did it as if on reflex. I was beginning to feel more and more like that dirty old man. There I was, lying in my bed with some fresh-faced young man of seventeen, holding his face affectionately as if we were long-time lovers sharing a private moment. He closed his eyes and leaned into my hand, almost like a sweet, sleepy puppy getting comfortable. My Harry was definitely touch-deprived. If only I could be the one to remedy that, to teach this dear, young, brilliant, _beautiful_ boy the ins and outs of the wonders of the human body.

"Remus..." he trailed off nervously and then opened his eyes to stare into my own that pale in comparison. "Do you think that it's wrong for me to be sitting here with you when..." his eyes darted away from mine, focusing on the bed sheets or the floor–I didn't particularly care which inanimate object received his uneasy stare, I only cared to get those eyes to look into my own once more.

"When what?" I asked, prompting Harry to finish the thought that had obviously been plaguing him.

"When... When I have these damn feelings for you that you don't have for me," he spit out in a fierce whisper, as if finally so frustrated with things he's been feeling that he can't keep them to himself much longer. I slowly sit up, but am careful not to removed my hand from his cheek. I want to be clear on what he's talking about before I act, I don't want to frighten him off and never have this opportunity to explain again.

"And what feelings are those?" I whispered, vainly attempting to steal his gaze away from whichever part of my room he was staring at. He was quiet for some time, his fingers nervously fiddling with the seam of his worn jeans. He closed his eyes, plunging himself into the safety that the endless abyss of black brings.

"The feelings for you that make me see you as something beyond a friend or a parent," his voice locked up. His body relaxed from the relief of his confession, only to be replaced with the jolt of nervousness and tension at the thought of what my reaction will be.

"Harry–"

He sat up quickly and stared at me. "Is it wrong?" Harry asked, so vulnerable at that moment. If someone else were in my spot, someone with the venom and heartlessness to strike him down, they could forever change what Harry believed. He could be completely crushed at that moment–everything he felt falling down around him, the things that he felt thrown into question. He grew up with his aunt and uncle who unsuccessfully tried to brainwash him. Since the moment that Hagrid came knocking on their door, since the moment that Harry was thrown into our world with all the caution of a soldier in the heat of battle, Harry has had to discover a completely new world and question everything he believed before. I think that his questioning of himself and where he stands in this world has never ended. And besides, there was no one else sitting in my spot. Just me. And I hardly had the strength to crush his weak shimmer of self-confidence, no matter how I tried to hide my feelings for him.

I allowed myself to smile slightly, hopefully reassuring Harry that I pose no judgement upon him. "No Harry, its not wrong. Some people may see it that way, just as some people believe that I am a monster, but I don't think like them. In fact, I've found that I have those same feelings for you," I said, delighted as the most beautiful smile of disbelief and happiness fixed itself on his lips. He looked straight into my eyes, his confidence shining brighter in his sharp gaze. It seemed that in the course of one night I had gone from denying any trace of attraction toward Harry to accepting it fully and acting on it. Either I was growing careless in my old age, or I was spending too much time around spontaneous teenagers.

"Really? That's brilliant!" he said enthusiastically. I chuckled softly and removed my hand,positivethat he wouldn't move. Instead, I ran my hand fondly through his messy hair, loosening tangles matted into his hair from sleep with my fingers.

"What do you say we keep between us for now, until we're sure who will support us and who won't?" I suggested, hoping he realized that I don't want to keep _him_ a secret per se, but rather wanted to save him from the wrath of close-minded idiots. Harry nodded gracefully. It seemed that I had once again underestimated how mature he had become since I met him, over four years ago.

"Yeah, I like that idea," he said. He looked to the door a moment, and then down at the pillows, and finally back into my eyes. "Could we lie here a while longer? There's a few hours yet until the meeting..."

I nodded and laid back against the firm mattress. Harry remained sitting up for a few moments, staring down at me as if he couldn't believe what he saw. But the moments were truly few and he was quickly lying down on his side next to me, his arm draped carelessly across my stomach and his head resting on my chest. I could feel each of his deep breaths against my side in a sensuous rhythm that drew me into sleep. His weight and warmth were comforting in their freshness and I knew that I could definitely get used to the feeling of peace I felt around Harry.

I cleared my mind–I didn't worry about the reactions of Albus, Severus, Minerva or Molly. I didn't plague myself with thoughts of what the other students at Hogwarts would say if they found out. I didn't care to think of what the Ministry would say, what Voldemort would do if he captured me, what Harry was thinking at the same moment. I cleared my mind and sank into the delicious feeling of home.

* * *

**A/n-**Was it worth the wait? My computer got wiped, I lost a lot of fanfics. Sorry for the delay! This was written in chunks over a two-month span. Please point out typos. 

**Please review! Constructive criticism is preferred above _all_ _else. _**


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